Page 15 of Morsel

“The crazy bitches always are.” He lifts his shoulders. “Does she put out?”

I pinch my lips together. Even if I came too fast, the hand job in the wine bath definitely counts.

I bob my head. “No complaints so far.”

“Who cares what you have to do to get your dick wet, right?” He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “I dated an artist once, and she never even let me smell her. You know what I’m saying?” I laugh quietly, and he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Pussy is always a feast or a fucking empty plate.”

Jerry is always talking about women like that, and though I know he’s talking about licking pussy and eating ass, he still treats women like objects, something to be fucked and consumed. And I like that. They aren’t objects, of course, but that isn’t the point; I like how the objectifying camaraderie binds us. Besides, I don’t actually want to eat a woman; I simply like the idea of it.

Tension rolls through my groin as I reflect on the fact that Jerry is probably right: Mona may be truly crazy. If she’s willing to be eaten, then she’s also probably willing to chop off my dick and feed it to me.

But the bottom line is that she’s insane enough to actually indulge her cannibalistic fantasies for her art instead of hiding them in her mind. It’s her choice to go public with her fantasies, to put them out in the open, to force others to witness her desires.

Our desires.

If I get to eat a part of her, does it matter if it’s forced out of some artistic bullshit?

I can inspire her.

I can eat her too.

No, no, no, my brain argues. You can’t actually eat her. It may be tempting to take a small bite, but you can’t fuck a woman who wants to be eaten. You’ll take one little nibble, and that will turn into more, and before you know it, you’ll be fucking her battered pussy and eating her tongue like she’s a fucking buffet. You can’t be a monster. You can’t. Control yourself, Kent. Control yourself, and you’ll get what you want.

I flip through the pages again, this time stopping on a new line: I understand that no compensation, including payment from art buyers, will be given to my benefit.

A headache blooms across my temple. I don’t need to read through the rest of it; I’ve gathered enough. First off, I don’t care if I get paid for this; I have my job here at the processing plant. And secondly, is it really that bad to be a part of her art show if there’s a chance I’ll get to eat a piece of her too?

I check the clock again. It’s getting dangerously close to when I need to decide.

Do you want to consume me because you’re a predator? Mona had asked, and it was like her voice was made of honey. Her throat and tongue braised in sweet water for so long, she would melt on my fork. You’re a predator, she had said, as if she saw the animal inside of me and wanted more, as if she knew my sharp teeth were longing to be tainted with her blood.

I can’t let this opportunity go to waste.

I keep my voice low. “Fuck the empty plate,” I say to Jerry. “If she’s a buffet, then I’m in.”

His laughter booms. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

A throat clears.

Jerry and I startle, then straighten in our seats.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” the supervisor asks.

The whole room is staring at us, judging us like we’re big cats caged behind thick glass, and for a split second, I imagine snapping everyone’s neck in my jaws like a fucking lion.

“We’re good,” Jerry says.

“Well, then.” The supervisor angles toward the door. “Let’s get back to work.”

The workers shuffle out of the break room, and I shake hands with Jerry. I nod toward the back exit, then lift the stack of papers.

“I’m going to clock out early and take care of some important business,” I joke.

“Signing your life away for pussy, then?” Jerry smacks my back. “Get it, my man. And thanks for the ground meat. I’m going to grill some burgers tomorrow.”

“Fuck yeah,” I say. “Eat up!”

“And you eat too!”

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